


Times and Fates You Can't Defy

by death_of_romeo



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1478863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_of_romeo/pseuds/death_of_romeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." Just as everyone else is judged after death, Judas Iscariot is no different. Just a bit of good ol' post-musical angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to my ff.net account and so I decided to also post it to here. Enjoy!

" _You have murdered me!_ "

Over and over again, he screamed those words. He didn't know why; did he hope that somebody would hear him? Did he want for his accused murderer to stumble upon him, face stained with tears and voice shaky with the pain he couldn't swallow? Did he want his best friend's second in command, the girl with the dark hair and bright eyes, to come find him? To convince him to keep on living? Or maybe he wanted those damned priests with the fancy suits and the hollowed minds to see him, convince him to stay alive. Maybe he could help put another innocent man to death, hm? Maybe he could betray another of his friends. Surely Peter would do as the next to be betrayed by such a demonic entity, such a devil as himself. Or maybe John; he was innocent enough, right? Of course, none were as innocent as the first that was killed indirectly by Judas' words.

That death was his fault, he knew that it was. How could he possibly go on living with that guilt? The rest of the group, if any still liked him by now, would certainly kill him. He was hated, anyway, wasn't he? Nobody would miss him. Mary couldn't stand him, Peter and the rest mostly always avoided confrontation with him. Only one human being on this planet cared for him and his life, and that man was soon to dead because of his actions.

" _Christ, you have murdered me!_ "

Again, he shouted those God forsakened words. He looked to the tree in front of him, then to the rope in his hands. In his broken rage, his shattered esteem, he did still hold his confidence fully intact. Without a moment's hesitation, he moved to the tree, tied that rough rope around a taller branch. His eyes, blurred with unshed tears yet surprisingly clear with dark intent, remained fixated on the knot that would soon be the death of him. It was beautiful, he thought, how simple a thing it was. He thought back on the men he once called his friends. One by one, he checked them off in his head. Peter never did like him, Simon didn't like anyone, much less such an outsider as Judas. John didn't probably have a problem with him until that last argument with their supposed savior...

He moved to wrap the rope around his neck, and even on the crate at his feet, he had to struggle to reach its height. He moved his hands, trembling and abruptly unsure of their own touch, to the tree's branch above his head, and as his grip on the wood tried to tighten, he took one last breath of salty air. He thought it would be his last taste of fresh air, really. He couldn't possibly predict that he would be having second thoughts this far into his plan, and even as he kicked the crate from beneath his feet and even as he desperately tried to keep his grip and move his legs up to the tree branch, he didn't know what he was doing. He wanted to die, he knew that he did, so then why was he trying not to do so? With this last pathetic thought in his mind, he finally allowed his body to drop, and as the scratchy rope dug in to his throat, his life escaped him.


	2. Judgement Day

He didn't remember what happened next. He couldn't _possibly_ remember what happened next. All he knew was that wherever he was now was dark, yet blindingly bright all at once. It was all white. Everywhere. Yet it felt evil, the sort of evil that one couldn't quite describe, but still knew the feeling by heart. That silent, subtle evil that led up to a horribly dark and depressing climax is what it was, but Judas didn't want to think of what that climax could possibly be. Whatever it was, he knew that it couldn't possibly outdo what his time on Earth had amounted to. Betrayal, suicide...nothing could beat that. _Nothing._

It hurt to look around, it hurt to _move_ , but he still forced himself to do just that. A hand slowly moved to touch his throat, the soft touch running along rough indentations and marks from the rope that once held his life in its grip, but now was nowhere to be found. He was startled by a quick sound of a sort of gasping for air, and soon realized that the abrupt noise had come from his own throat. He swallowed that fear with whatever air he had taken in, and as he stole another painfully blinding look around the all white, all clean room, a thought

_(Where is he where is he where is he)_

popped into his head. It was a frightening thought, and although it was a rather vague one, he still understood it. He moved back against the wall, sat against it and scanned the room again with wide eyes as he searched for something, someone. The room looked empty, sure, but it wasn't. Judas knew it. He fucking _knew_ it. He couldn't quite explain why, but he could just feel the other man's presence. He had learned over time to do that, he supposed, and even though he was

_(dead, I'm dead)_

not living at the moment, he could still sense his friend's presence near him. It wasn't a threatening one, but it was still one that made him feel a bit more conscious of his words and actions and behavior and such. Jesus kept him in line, as he always used to joke. But this was no joking matter. This eerily clean and pure room, this unabated anticipation, it all got under his skin and bothered him to the point of actually trying to speak aloud of it.

"Wh-...where are you, you son of a-"

_There._

There he was, standing there across the room. Had he been there all along? Judas tried to think, to remember, but he was too lost in the sight that stood before him. Scars ran along the top of the man's forehead, along with the tops of his hands...

**_("Do you think you're what they say you are?")_ **

He remembered then. All at once, the memories rushed back in to his mind with startling accuracy and color. The cross, the crown of thorns, the nails, the crowd, the high priests, the group...it all came back so suddenly that it sent the once apostle, twice outcast reeling, his attention falling to the floor as he let out a bit of a whimper. He couldn't hold it in, suppress the pathetic sound of pain and regret, nor could he stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. That damned regret, that damned guilt, it all swelled back up to an extremely terrifying height. It was only quelled by the touch of a hand, heavy on his shoulder yet light with comfort, though his regret was only quenched for a moment. Bright eyes rushed up to meet those of his friend, who stood with one hand touching the shoulder of his traitor and the other limp, lazy at his side. This was a simple act, nothing out of the ordinary, but Judas couldn't take it.

"Don't touch me..." he muttered lowly, but made no move to end the contact between the two. He only looked down, tried to ignore it. For a moment, he contemplated if any of this was even real. Sure, he believed in God and all of this, and sure, he had quite the logical explanation in his mind as to where he was and why...but why was Jesus here? The man _was_ the son of God, was he not? He was their _savior,_ for God's sake. He didn't need to be judged. Nobody had to debate over where he was destined to be for the rest of eternity. In fact, Judas figured that nobody had to debate over _his_ destiny, either, but he wouldn't say that thought out loud. Though the removal of his friend's touch silently implied that maybe that thought was understood as truth between the two, anyway.

"There's not any reason to be afraid, Judas." the man's voice was so quiet, so soft, so...sad? That was what it was; sad. He could tell from the tone of it, from how the words had been spoken. That was another little trick he had learned over those past few years; to interpret Jesus' tone for his emotions, to understand and to listen more instead of just brushing things off...even if that was exactly what he did just then in response. Because those words, they were a lie. Nothing to be afraid of? No reason to be fearful? Ha! That was funny. Jesus, he didn't understand. He couldn't possibly understand! Had he taken his own life? Had he betrayed his best friend for thirty flimsy pieces of silver? Had he watched every day as his best friend lost his fucking mind?

_No._


	3. Almost An Apology

At first, he remained quiet. No, not quiet, he remained _silent_. He didn't whisper, didn't mutter, didn't _breathe_ out loud. His friend's words seemed too good to be true, too pure to be honest, but he couldn't speak against them. Perhaps he had before, when circumstances were different and when lives were in danger. But, as cynical a thought it may have been, no lives were in danger anymore. All those times when he spoke against his friend, they were all meaningless now. All that meant something now was this blindingly bright white room, this time he was spending waiting, this man before him who had just had sat down at his side despite the cold and unwilling aura that Judas was trying to give off.

That never did work with Jesus; he was too stubborn, too persistent. A part of it, Judas always figured, was the amount of time they spent together. He had rubbed off on the man for the worst, hadn't he? He couldn't remember if his friend had been so determined and persistent before, but he could only imagine it so. All the times they would bicker about the next day's plans or the group's finances, all the times Judas would storm off in a fuming rage, Jesus would always follow. _Always_. He would find him, search him out. He would try sometimes, as Judas remembered, to talk some sense into him. He would give up inevitably, though, and just settle for silence. He would wait, albeit rather impatiently at times, for his follower to speak. Just like now; God, how he couldn't stand this silence. Wouldn't Jesus just speak? He could talk about anything - _anything_. Anything to break this horrible silence that had settled between them.

"Why me?" Judas eventually found himself asking. Still, his voice was failing him, the soft and frightened tone of it surprising even his own ears as he stared a hole into the shiny white tiled floors below. He didn't want to ask any more, didn't want to further explain that question. It was rather vague, he knew, but he didn't care. Not anymore. He only cared about this room, this waiting period. He only cared about Jesus. God, that sounded horrible. He tried to think of something else, _anything_ else, instead. He tried to ignore his friend's presence again. He tried to instead think of things that he used to love. He realized then, in a rather sudden shine of clarity, that

_(I want to go home I want to go home)_

he wanted to be given a second chance. Pathetic, he knew, but regret was such a powerful thing. He knew that for a fact, didn't he? After all, regret had been what killed him in the first place. Not Jesus, as many times as he had screamed it, and not God, as many times as he claimed the omnipotent being was to blame. It was regret's fault. Regret was what made him tie that rope, and find that crate, and-

A soft sigh broke his mind from all of those thoughts, the defeated and desperate determination in the breath sounding all too familiar. It was the same sound he would hear when an argument had reached the point of no return. _Or when he had given up on me_ , Judas thought quickly, though soon felt horrible for having thought up such a notion.

"I don't know." he heard from the man at his side. "It was His plan, Judas."

That was not the answer he had been hoping for. Truthfully, he didn't know _what_ he had been expecting as an answer, but it wasn't that, that much was for certain.

"It was His plan to have me betray you? To be paid to let those men arrest and murder you?" his voice was beginning to cooperate now, and thank God for that. Ironic enough, wasn't it?

_(At least he did something right for me.)_

Reluctantly, and after a few moments worth of more silence, he received yet another answer that he did not want; "Yes."

"It wasn't fair." he countered. "Why couldn't it have been Peter? Or John? Or Simon? Why me?"

He was rambling now, and he knew it. What had it been that Simon had always told him? His memory wasn't what it used to be since he

_(died, I died)_

had killed himself, but he still knew that he could remember. If he thought on it hard enough-

_("Stop being so dramatic. Can't you just leave everyone alone for once?")_

"He chose you." Another answer that Judas did not want. "I doubt they would believe the same words from Simon or any of the others. They believed you."

_The one time people actually listened to me_ , he thought as an offhanded, silent retort. He didn't even know what that meant, not at first. He knew that those priests had believed him, but he also knew that they wanted Jesus dead, anyway. He caused too much trouble, was far too powerful for his own good. Judas never wanted him dead, but what else could he have done? His friend was losing his mind, falling into every wrong path that he could. He had had no other choice _but_ to betray him. It was all set up that way, he supposed. It had been God's no-fail way of damning Judas for all of eternity, hadn't it?

"I didn't have a choice." he paused then. Not for thought, but to gather his own and to find his voice completely. "I didn't want you to die. I didn't know what else to do. You have to believe me, I-"

"I believe you, Judas. Please, don't worry of that."

Naturally, the interruption would have annoyed or frustrated him. But he actually welcomed it now, and he accepted the other's words before continuing, this time a bit more calm and collected.

"I always worry about it. You know that." It was their dirty little secret, wasn't it? Nobody on that planet knew that Judas Iscariot, the outcast of the Twelve and of all of the disciples, had a single caring bone in his body. Nobody but Jesus, anyway. "I never wanted you to die. And when they arrested you, I..." the scene and images mentally tried to come back, but he shoved them all away with a sigh. "...I knew that was the end."


	4. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, I have to admit; I took major inspiration from "The Last Days of Judas Iscariot". Go see it if you've not done so already. This doesn't contain spoilers for it or anything like that, but I took inspiration for my ending from it.

What else was there to say? He could sit here for hours on end and try to explain his actions. He could go on about how the group had never much liked him, about how the _world_ had never much liked him, but he wouldn't. He could go on about how he had contemplated his idea for weeks, about how he was certain that nobody would die in the end, but he wouldn't. He could go on about how much he regretted his decision, about how he wanted to be given a second chance at life and love and happiness...but he wouldn't. Instead, he only stared down to the floor. That shining white tiled floor felt too clean to be touched by such a disgraceful being as himself, and for a good few moments, he actually believed that it was too good even for him. It was too pure, too clear, too goddamned _clean_ for his liking. It reminded him too much of the man sitting next to him; it reminded him too much of home.

The room had become eerily silent again, and Judas couldn't stand it. Silence like this, the sort that hung heavy with unspoken apologies and laments, it bothered him. Far more than it should, really, but he didn't know how to even _start_ to speak against it. That would require openly admitting the things that he honestly did want to say, but didn't know just the right words to do so. He didn't know where to begin, where to end. He didn't know how, or why. He didn't know much of anything, really. He supposed his case was closed, wasn't it? He was guilty of far more sins than he would like to count. He had done the unthinkable on _numerous_ occasions; he deserved Hell. He deserved to be damned for all of eternity, to be demonized and sent down far, far away from salvation and redemption. So then why was he still here in this all white, all clean, room? A thought

_(Talk to him, you have to talk to him)_

shot through his slightly foggy mind, but he didn't obey its orders, not yet. He just stayed there, sat still in his fear and frozen in his silence. A moment later, he felt a hand set on top of his own, and the sudden warmth from it sent chills through his entire body. Bright eyes shot to the site of the contact, but he didn't move away from it, no. He just watched their hands, one a fair bit darker, smaller, softer, was placed so lightly on top of his own...this wasn't a new occurrence, no, of course it wasn't, but it still surprised him. Because despite how many times he knew that this had happened before, he couldn't quite remember how it had felt. He couldn't recall just how gentle his friend's touch had been, or how soft the man's palm had been when it pressed against his own. He couldn't remember just how perfectly their fingers entwined with each other's. He knew that he should remember these things, he knew that he should, but he just couldn't. It was like he was in a dream almost, but he knew otherwise; this was all very much real, and that idea genuinely frightened him.

Slowly, he moved his hand so that the palm faced up. The hand that previously sat atop it never once moved away, and when the palms connected with each other, the fingers followed suit, intertwining between each other like a perfect fit. He couldn't feel the electricity in the touch like he used to, but he could see it. He could remember feeling _something_ , and although the actual feeling wasn't there anymore, he could still recall how it made him feel before. _Like Heaven on Earth_ , he had claimed once, and he could remember clearly the tiny chuckle that had left his half asleep lover. He could remember that smile, that damn smile that melted his heart each time he saw it. All of those evenings when neither could sleep, or when vivid nightmares painted their dream land's canvas with dark blues and bloody reds, the same simple contact would occur. Just a hand, just a platonic, friendly gesture, but it meant so much more to him. So, _so_ much more.

"Don't be afraid." Jesus' voice, the slightly unsure tone that Judas knew all too well, finally broke the silence, and for that, he was thankful. Even if he didn't believe in the words, and even if he would do exactly the opposite of what they warned, he still liked to hear them. The same thought as before

_(Talk to him, you have to talk to him)_

ran through his head, sliced his confusion in two, and this time he actually did do what his thoughts suggested.

"I can't remember this." he murmured, his focus still locked on their hands as he spoke. "The touch...I can't remember what you felt like." It sounded weird when he said it, like the words weren't in the right order or the sentence wasn't worded correctly, but he didn't bother to try to fix it. Instead, he only fell silent again. When Jesus didn't speak after a few moments, he reluctantly continued, thinking that perhaps he needed to explain a bit more. "It doesn't...it doesn't feel right. It's...I don't know how to explain it." he sighed in defeat, though still didn't look away from their locked hands. He was determined, however silly it may be, to remember just how it felt each time they did things like this. He was frustrated beyond comprehension by just how numb he was to the usually loving contact, and so when Jesus again repeated his previous warning, Judas at first wasn't even listening.

"Judas, listen to me. Don't be afraid." The hand that was being held by his own squeezed it a little, but still, it didn't feel special. It didn't feel _different_. The dejected expression that passed along Judas' expression must have been rather blatant, because the next words that were spoken sounded more desperate than the ones before them. These were definitely meant to be heard. "I will always love you. Always. Never forget that."

He listened. God, he listened, and he understood, too, but he still was rather distracted. His friend's touch still didn't feel special or loving or in any way different, but as the seconds ticked on, it began to not even be _felt_. Judas squeezed the hand back then in some desperate attempt of feeling it against his own, and he did a little bit. This scared him, frightened him into his previous state of fear and panic, and for only the second time in this entire encounter, his gaze shot up to that of the Messiah.

"Why can't I feel this anymore?"


	5. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end of our wonderful journey together. Sad, I know.

_"Don't panic._ "

Ha, like _that_ was going to happen. He was being judged, his fate was being decided, but that wasn't even why he was beginning to panic. His touch, his senses, his _everything_ , was going numb. It was like when a person dozed off, when their toes curled and hair stood on end as they awaited the warm embrace of sleep. But this time, it wouldn't be warm. Judas knew that much, at least. It would be cold; just like the air around that God forsaken tree and just like the chills that used to shoot down his spine each time he was shown even the slightest bit of affection or love. Those moments were rare for him, that softer side only occasionally got to peek out. He kept that little demon, that lighter,

_(broken, useless, pathetic)_

side hidden, buried deep, deep down within him. Only Jesus knew of that side. That panicky, emotional side that clung to desire and held tight to need and lust. That side that only very rarely showed itself; that side that was coming out now in full force.

"Why is this happening to me?" he pleaded to his friend before squeezing their entwined hands once more. As hard as he possibly could, he squeezed his friend's hand. The man visibly winced a little at the painful feeling, and this only threw Judas into even more of a panic; he could barely feel a thing. And he didn't want to hurt Jesus...

_(You've done it before, why not do it again?)_

"Kiss me." he abruptly demanded, bright eyes gleaming desperately at darker ones. He knew how Jesus felt about such blatant shows of affection; he knew that they weren't particularly liked. Their love was to be for God, not each other. Their love was to be brotherly, friendly. Their love was to be routine. Regular. Normal.

But they both knew that it wasn't. They shared too many nights together, slept side by side far too many times. Judas cared too much, that was his excuse. Then again, that was his excuse for _most_ things concerning his friend. When asked why he wanted to sleep in the same tent with Jesus after the man was visibly upset throughout the day;

_("I care too much.")_

When asked why he wouldn't leave the man's side after Simon started another fight or after Mary became upset over something;

_("I care too much.")_

When asked why he occasionally wanted a bit more personal, physical affection to be shown to him;

_("I care too much.")_

When, while sitting side by side in an all white, all clean, all pure room where lost souls await judgement, he was asked why he had demanded a kiss, his response was simply;

"I care too much."

Jesus watched him when those words were said. They weren't new ones, weren't in a foreign tongue or a different, unknown language. They were common, routine, regular. They were normal. Normalcy was a strange thing to search for while alive, much less while dead and awaiting judgement, and Jesus knew that. He knew how his follower liked to defy normalcy and routine, how he loved to disregard the usual routines and regular happenings of things. _Nothing you do surprises me_ , he had said once before, during an argument, if he remembered correctly. He wished he could take that back now. He wished he could take all of it back. He wished he could have changed his friend's mind. Maybe not about the betrayal and his own eventual demise, that much had been decided already. But maybe he could have stopped and prevented that of his most faithful and loyal follower. Maybe, if he hadn't have been so consumed in his own trouble, Judas could still be alive. He wouldn't be suffering, he wouldn't be in pain.

_(He wouldn't be dead.)_

But he _was_ dead, and as much as Jesus hated to believe it, he was, too. They both were, but this wouldn't be the happy ending he wanted. Judas had other plans, darker ones. His mind always had been a dark place, but Jesus always had hope. _He's only misguided_ , he had told someone else, possibly Mary, one evening. It was a simple conversation, one that occurred after an argument and before the two had made up. _He's on the right path. He sees it. He only needs guidance to follow it_. That had been his job; guide Judas down that path of righteousness, that path of salvation and redemption. But what had he done instead? He had allowed the man to die, to kill himself. And now he was here, sitting in this

_(it's too clean for him)_

all white, all clean, all pure room awaiting his final judgement. Jesus knew what it was going to be, Judas probably did, too, and that only made it harder. He had comforted men and women before, helped them along in life, but this was not life. This was different. He had never seen a soul be deemed to eternal damnation. He didn't want to, really, much less his best friend, but he had to. It was a part of the agreement, the order of things from now on. He didn't know how to comfort men like this, those who knew of their fate and those who were beginning to cross on to it. But he did know how to satisfy him.

The kiss was gentle, soft. It was the first, maybe second, time in all of their time knowing each other that the younger man had began the moment. He knew what to expect; Judas would push it further, almost too far, then pull away suddenly, abruptly. He would apologize. But that didn't happen this time. He was surprised, honestly surprised, when the blonde next to him didn't move the kiss along. In fact, he barely even engaged in it. That was odd, and although Jesus knew why the man wasn't pushing it any further,

_(he can't feel this he can't feel me)_

it still hurt him. Never once in his life had he desired such a carnal thing, such a filthy, dirty, _sinful_ form of contact. But, as cynical as it was to think, he wasn't alive anymore. Neither was Judas.

A hand went to his cheek, the calloused touch cold against his own warm skin. It felt heavy, lost, awkward. Nothing at all like it should have felt, he knew at least that much. Another went to the top of his head, the fingers ran through his hair slowly, as if trying to savor the touch and feeling of it. But still, the kiss wasn't progressed any further. It still remained soft, gentle, shy. Judas was almost never shy. Maybe sometimes, when Mary was too close or when an argument became too personal. That time between sleep and dream, and dreams and awake, those were the most common times when the man was shy. It was a timid sort of shy, the kind a child would show when they were suddenly surprised with ice cream on a hot summer's day. It was the sort that lovers showed before they proposed marriage, or the first time a husband held his first born child. It was the sort of shy that didn't suit such an outspoken, independent man as Judas Iscariot, but also just the sort of shy that did.

The kiss finally broke, but not by Judas' move. The contact had become too awkward, too desperate, too much of a jumble of limbs, an uneven match of admiration and affection. They didn't match like they used to. But Judas knew that they did; he fucking _knew_ it. He just couldn't feel it, not anymore. He could barely feel anything at this point, and in one last moment of defeat, he rested against Jesus' body, rested his head against the shorter man's shoulder.

"I'm sorry." he murmured, willed his voice out of whatever crevice of sound he could find. It was raspy again, lost in the numbness and darkness that was beginning to consume him. The last three words were a whisper. A low, painful whisper that only came after he closed his eyes, after he sighed a quiet, almost content, last breath.

"I love you."


End file.
